Tin Man
by fiftyshadesofgraham
Summary: When Gilbert Beilschmidt, a German soldier, is transferred to a Russian prison camp, his only grasps at friendship are an overly violent Finn, a scheming Estonian and a somewhat unnecessarily unkind Russian ex-soldier who seems to hate him more than anyone else does. (Set in about 1952, in a Russian prison in Siberia, it is RusPrus, rated M for violence and adult themes.)
1. Chapter 1

_DISCLAIMER- I do not own Hetalia_

_This is set in about 1952-ish, just before Stalin's death and whatnot, if this kind of stuff isn't your thing, I am very sorry if it offends you, but please don't read it if you don't like it. There will be more chapters, maybe not as long as this one, but I hope you stick with it and enjoy it!_

_Please review this chapter, tell me what you think!_

**Chapter one- **

A hiss. The whisper of snow landing on their thick-but-still-much-too-thin parkas. The wind scraping like claws across the parts of their faces that weren't wrapped in rags. The occasional shout from the barracks or a muffled curse from the men above him. The silence was crushing. It curled around their hearts like blankets of stone, it wrapped every still man in his shroud of ice, it howled across the long wood barracks and sat beside every sane man like a companion beyond the veil. There was nothing. No young ones asking to be picked up, no women scolding their husbands or stitching clothes whilst keeping a watchful eye over the children. Not even the bark of a dog. Nothing to remind him that there used to be another way of living before this other than the small piece of cloth tucked into his pocket and the iron shard he kept hung around his neck. And even those were starting to fade, the cloth becoming torn and tattered from the amount of times it had been taken out as he had been searched, the shard showing obvious wear around the edges and the carvings in it had long since rubbed smooth. Just another reminder that his life was slowly slipping away from his memory and that he was still stuck here.

Spreading another layer of cement carefully down over the bricks they laid yesterday, slotting the brick he held in his other hand neatly next to its neighbour. He had to work quickly in case the cement froze, otherwise he would have to chip it off and start again. It was one of the only things he ever took time and care with; smoothing away the cement that had seeped from under the brick carefully with the end of his trowel, making sure each brick was in line with the others. He felt a certain sense of pride when he had finished a layer, but when you've been stuck doing it every day for a month or so, it's the only thing that keeps you from just kicking the damn thing down and making off into the forest. He didn't see why they should be building the walls that would keep them from ever seeing everything they loved again, wasn't that the captor's job? But, then again, he supposed 'true Soviets' were more equal so they didn't have to do any kind of work like that.

The man below him, however, was enjoying laying the bricks slightly less than he was. He heard several curses in what he assumed was his comrade's native language and the clanging scrape of a trowel hitting the wall with a considerable amount of force. He glanced down, trying not to focus on how far he was off the ground, seeing the smaller man scowling with enough force to drive away the winter at a large chip in the brick he'd just laid.

"It was all going so well until the fucking trowel broke." The Finn sighed and tried once more to jam the head of his trowel back onto its handle. The cold was so vicious even some of the tools were snapping, and he was having to constantly tap the bricks in case they had cracked from the inside.

He acknowledged his companion's words with a grunt before descending down his ladder to plant his feet a little more firmly onto the hard-packed snow. Ladders or any other means of aerial suspension which concluded in him being more than his own height off the ground unnerved him, especially out here. If he fell, even into the snow, none of the mumbo-jumbo pills from the infirmary would be able to put things right. Especially in this cold, his bones were liable to crack already. Casting his gaze upwards and seeing the sun sunk low in the sky in a way not dissimilar to the weary expressions they all wore. Another half-hour, just to finish off, then they would call it a day.

His boots, so patched and re-stitched that there was almost none of the original colour left, made no sound on the snow; a little odd, some would say, considering the fact that he towered over everyone who wasn't up a ladder, and even some who were. Taking long strides, his hands shoved into his pockets and his chin tucked into a scrap of fabric he was using instead of his scarf, he walked past the rest of the ladder and turned a corner to see a glow of light in all the greys and whites. Ah, they'd got cold again. He sighed, shaking his head. This was no place for boys. And no place for any sane man either.

"You can stop now." Those were the only words he'd felt were necessary to voice for the whole day, and those four words brought sighs of relief that probably could have been heard in the Kremlin.

A familiar bright-eyed young man wrenched the scarf he'd wrapped his nose and mouth in to stop his breath freezing on the fur line of his collar to one side and flashed him a small smile. Ivan took a second to observe the shorter man, not changing his cold and somewhat blank gaze. Eduard had always been a rather slim fellow, but as of recent he'd been looking a little gaunt. Well, most of them had, since the rations had been cut several times to make room for the hundred or so extra men that had come from down in Romania. Despite his somewhat physical frailty and inability to carry a pickaxe for more than five minutes, Ivan couldn't deny that he was a useful member of his gang. With sharp, clever grey eyes and a mind that was always looking for new ways to bring in more food; he was certainly one of the brightest in his gang, or even in the whole camp. He was constantly muttering about escape and seemed to mock Ivan slightly, in the way a crow taunts a cat. Ivan had learned to put up with his comments or snide remarks, he was one of the lifesavers of the gang, and many a good man would have gone under if it wasn't for him.

Eduard, followed by his subordinate, Nikolai, who seemed to be his shadow as of late, widened his smile. "Nikolai says it's going to blizzard tonight again, Ivan, do you think we'll get let off the wall?"

That was the other thing; he seemed to speak for others, especially shy little Raivis who, from what Ivan could see, had been sent to the infirmary again. That had been the fifth time that week; Ivan was starting to worry for the boy. Not that he cared, just so they wouldn't go under inspection and be separated, or worse. Ivan had heard from some of the survivors from camps higher up in the wastelands that the Tartars made them dig pits then lie in them, waiting for death, but he wasn't sure if that was entirely true or not. They couldn't be that bad, could they?

Eduard's eyes flicked up to meet his and he held his gaze, not moving. Eduard's eyes were dull with pain and exhaustion as much as everyone else's were, yet they still shone a little, almost in the way a magpie's does. There were dark circles under his eyes, one slightly darker and more purplish from where a Tartar had cuffed him around the side of the face when he had been defending Raivis or something. Yes, that was the other thing, he seemed to care for that boy like a brother- and even though they were only several years apart in age, Eduard seemed to worry for the Latvian like a mother fusses over a child. Ivan found this quality a little odd for someone he'd always considered to be one of the 'survivors', one of the ones who would fight through anything just to see the end of it. No-one with any emotional attachment ever survived very long.

Ivan broke his stare with Eduard, bending down to pick up a broken trowel that someone, probably Tino, had dropped, and tucked it into the hand-stitched pocket of his overcoat before any of the guards saw. "They'll send us out anyway." Unlike Tino and some of the socially gentler inmates, Ivan wasn't fussed about hamming everything up, saying everything was going to be alright, when he knew damn well it wasn't. It wasn't long before they were going to start dropping like flies, he'd seen it before and it was no different here. The weakest ones would go first, then even the strongest man would fall. That was how they had ended up here in the first place; those with families and things they loved went easily as not to put anyone at risk, those with nothing to lose fought bitterly until they had to be dragged there. It was easy to pick out the fighters from the 'squealers', and normally the two groups never mixed.

They trudged through the snow in silence, back round the wall to the cluster of barracks which, unlike the neat rows in some of the other places he'd 'visited', seemed to have no sense of order or formality. Hah, that was the way of the Russians. All shambolic and nonsensical until they had a target to meet, then they wouldn't stop.

Several grumbles and groans sounded from the men that marched in an almost militaristic fashion behind him , and he knew it wouldn't be long until one of them started getting out of hand. None of them seemed to know their place, and would rant and rave until they were given a good talking too, or most of the time, given a good clout around the ear. It was like training dogs, but then again, not one of them was exactly a man anymore. They were just shadows ploughing through the snow, leached of any light or happiness they may have possessed previously. Ivan could see it in their eyes, the deep crushing sadness he held in his own chest, the way their eyes would glaze over as they stared into space during conversation. There was nothing left for them anymore, yet the will to keep going still dragged their sorry corpses up at reveille and laid them to rest again at sunset.

They had a little while longer before they would be searched again, and for Gang 24 this time was heaven on earth. Ivan entered the barracks, flanked by Tino and Eduard, and immediately swung himself with remnants of grace onto his bunk. He overshot a little, but the sawdust-stuffed mattress cushioned his fall slightly. _Slightly. _There was only so much falling Russian a mattress could support, and Ivan heard the offending bed creak several times as he settled himself. The majority of the men tended to eat their remaining bread ration, if there was any left, or try and get a little more sleep before the guards came in to bark them off to their evening meal. Ivan preferred to just sit and observe, or occasionally mend his boots when the stitching started to loosen again. Damn boots. The ones he'd owned before could have walked themselves to Berlin and back without a single scratch.

"I swear, one more fucking brick and I'm going to throw myself off that wall." Came a heavily accented voice from the bed below him. A round-ish face poked itself over the edge of Ivan's bed, wearing a mixture of a grin and a scowl. Ivan often had to guess his mood, as the Finn was twice as unpredictable as the rest of them put together.

Ivan let his composure go for once, and his blank look lessened into something a little less cold. He leaned back, supporting himself on his elbows, casually regarding the state of degradation his overcoat was in. Half the time he wondered whether there was even any point wearing it, it didn't seem to keep off much of the cold, and was tattered and blackened with soot from the time their gang had spent mending the single boiler that only heated the guard's quarters. "They'll leave you out there to freeze, you know." There, his cold voice was back now. "They did that with those two Latvians who went on strike." Tino smirked a little, Ivan knew the Finn regarded him as a bit of an insensitive bastard, but he really didn't care what he thought. They would all be dead soon anyway, it didn't matter what they tried to do. The ticking of the clock defined their lives until the moment their own wheels stopped turning, the ice slowly setting in until their graves were frozen shut.

"Some of the men say you turn warm before you die" Tino mused wistfully, fiddling with a frayed hem on his sleeve. He laughed a little sarcastically, and his frown all but disappeared. "It's a better way to go then having bullets rammed into your chest by those meatheads over there." A slight jerk of his head, just the tiniest twitch, towards the two guards smoking outside the barracks notified Ivan of whom he was speaking about.

His eyebrow raised and he glared enviously over at the guards. It had been a long time since he'd had a smoke, and even though he was getting out of the habit, it wouldn't have been bad to feel the hot smoke warm his chest again. Many members of his gang smoked almost religiously, one of the reasons for why Eduard was so affluent in his ways, and most of them had been sent to the camp for 'disciplinary measures', or whatever they called it nowadays. It was just a load of rubbish, they wanted them dead, and that was all Ivan cared about.

"Bullets are quicker though." He stated gruffly before turning away from the Finn, indicating that the conversation was over. He heard a cynical chuckle from behind him but thought nothing of it. Their short and really very not substantial conversation had dredged up a number of thoughts on his reason of still being around. It would be so easy just to lie down in the snow and not get up, so calming just to stay there until he could no longer think. And no-one would care. They'd just drag his body to wherever they dumped the others and leave him for the wolves and whatever other hellish creatures screamed in the night.

Tino let out a sigh which could have been a laugh. "You would rather meet your end at Soviet metal?" Raising an eyebrow, the Finn pulled himself fully up onto Ivan's bunk, resting his chin on his palm as he observed the Russian. It was near impossible to know what Ivan was thinking half the time, and Tino could only really identify the extremes of his moods.

Ivan shifted a little as Tino sat beside him and let out a cold bark of laughter. Swinging himself off the bunk and landing with a loud creak on the floor, he grinned at Tino. His eyes remained cold as ever, piercing the confused Finn with the chill of a bird of prey. It was almost sick how he smiled, how he could pull off the expression so easily while his eyes stayed fixed in ice. The grin slowly died down into a smirk as Ivan stuffed his hands into his pockets and began to walk away.

"I don't care" He called above the racket of the other men. "I'll be dead."

And thus, he walked away, leaving Tino frowning confusedly in his wake. He took a few moments to assert himself, shook his head, and climbed back onto his own bunk. "Russians." He muttered to himself before slamming his head down onto the single sawdust-stuffed pillow and closing his eyes.

Men fell silent as he walked past, some carefully tucked away their saved rations, some took a chance to point and mutter at him when he wasn't looking. Ivan could have lashed out. He could have selected one of the many victims and made an example of the bloody mess which would be the result of pissing him off. He could have done that all too easily. He had the strength, the authority, and not to mention the fear to back him up. He could have them, all of them, even the hardiest of ex-soldiers, whimpering at his feet and begging for mercy. Every time he turned his head a guilty face shrank back into the darkness, muttering apologies and threats in garbled languages. He'd lost count of the times when his rations had been stolen in an attempt to starve him away, and couldn't remember a time when he hadn't woken up missing his boots. Even some of the members of his gang struck out against him in fits of pain and frustration and everything else one goes through when they are ripped away from everything they know and love and are placed under the order of a tall, imposing Russian with cold eyes and cold hands and cold words.

As he walked past them he saw a number of familiar faces. Dmitry, Petryov, Alexandr. He nodded at them in an almost polite way and he watched their heads jerk up and down in return like their lives depended on it. It didn't really matter that everyone despised him, they would all be dead soon anyway, including himself. It wasn't his job to make them suffer more than they already did, he didn't even have to bother keeping them alive. He just had to maintain some kind of authority over them to stop everything falling into chaos.

He lowered his head so he didn't hit the plank of wood above the door, stepping out into the cold afternoon air. It was starting to get dark already, and Ivan had to pull his scarf over his mouth to stop his breath freezing on his collar. A pair of guards were sharing a cigarette a couple of paces away from him, and he greeted them with a glance.

There was a sharp _ker-chak _and a softer noise followed by a loud exclamation of 'fuck' as one of the guard's bayonets dropped off the end of his rifle as he tried to load it. The guards seemed to have a habit of loading and reloading their rifles, as if one of his gang was stupid enough to try and make a run for it. It was silly how often a shot was randomly fired into empty air during the guard's (usually drunken) patrols of the camp, and Ivan knew none of the men under his command would treat any such weapon as merely a plaything.

Ivan regarded them with disdain for a few moments before stooping down to almost delicately pluck the blade from the snow. He rolled it over in his palm, noting that it wasn't really a bayonet, and just a thin knife someone had drilled a hole in. He'd expected that, no-one was going to waste any money on actual weapons to keep them in order; they were too busy churning out Mausers for men on the front line. Holding the bayonet by the blade, he handed it to the nearest guard.

The man, who he assumed was Russian by the patch on his overcoat sleeve, narrowed his eyes almost mockingly, "What's this? The mighty Tin Man creaks his joints to help a mortal?" The other guard snickered and took a long drag on his cigarette, muttering something in Russian that Ivan couldn't quite catch.

Ivan took this opportunity to let out the anger he'd been packing up like straw bales in the corner of his mind. His lip curled into a sneer, and he let the bayonet fall into the guard's hand. "Hardly. Just wouldn't want anyone too _accidently _hurt themselves."

The guard stiffened and scowled, spitting into the snow by Ivan's boot. Ivan knew he had hit a sore spot, the guards blamed the shooting of many an innocent man on 'accidents' which seemed to happen just a little too frequently to avoid suspicion. "Go scrub some floors." He growled, turning on his heel and stalking off into the swirl of snow, closely followed by his companion who really didn't look like he wanted to stay around Ivan alone for very long. Well, not many people did, only Death seemed to like following him everywhere.

Ivan smirked again and watched them leave, the wind blowing swirling patterns in the snow around him. There was a snort behind him and he turned to see the lead guard leaning against the wall of the barrack. He kept his surprise hidden from the stoic man, setting himself into a more casual stance. He folded his arms, watching the man carefully as he continued to chuckle and pulled out a bent cigarette. He then proceeded to light it and take a long drag, pausing only then to look up at Ivan.

"Want a smoke?" The silence was broken by the guard's voice, sharp and scratchy from too many cigarettes, the result of becoming good friends with Eduard. Ivan didn't even shake his head; he just remained silent and stared at the man. What was his name? Nikolas? Nikolai? He didn't know, something like that. He wasn't as tall as Ivan, but just as imposing, with a moustache and beard that almost seemed to take over his entire face and a figure that, from a distance, could have been mistaken for a bear.

Ivan declined the offer which some men would have starved for with a dismissive shrug, watching the guard's sharp, clever eyes meet his own. From what Ivan had heard, he'd served a long time fighting in Germany, but had defected and had landed a job as a prison guard. Despite having warm meals twice a day and being able to nick a smoke of the inmates from time to time, the sadness in his eyes was still present. It angered him that a man who had so much more than the rest of them did assumed that he could just leach off everyone else for information and smokes, but considering he was the only thing separating Ivan from the snowy wastelands beyond the barbed wire, he was in no position to voice his complaints.

The guard blew smoke before coughing and breaking his gaze with Ivan. "They want you at the gate." He muttered, wrenching his hat a little further down his head so his eyes were almost obscured. When Ivan gave him the blank look of 'I am not breaking up any fights', he let out a mix of a huff and a laugh. "Now, before Mikaelovitch has us both in the cells."

Ivan relented, and swept past the guard without a word, wrapping his scarf tightly around his neck and tucking his chin down as he moved away from the shelter of the barracks. Occasionally a torch flashed at the edge of his vision but he had no need to turn and look, it was just other men doing their business, he had no need to intrude. Even though he had tried his best not to look surprised and worried in front of the guard, he couldn't help but wonder what the reason was for his summoning to the gates. There apparently weren't any new arrivals until the snow cleared up, which shocked Ivan a little considering that a year ago they hadn't cared about throwing new men straight from the wagon and into the snow.

After a while of concentrated trudging and trying not to look up at anyone, he reached the black double gates which seemed to him like the gates of Hell- he was the soulless demon, peering out with hatred at everything else beyond that gate. A truck had rolled in some time ago, and already snow had packed up around its wheels. Ivan scanned the area for any of the camp overseer or whatever they called him nowadays, and saw naught but a figure slumped between two guards which seemed twice the size of it.

"Braginsky" One of the guards rumbled, his thick Estonian accent immediately notifying him that he was one of Eduard's affiliates. However, this guard didn't seem like a particularly nice affiliate, as after a while of glaring at Ivan he smirked and jabbed the slumping figure in the back, forcing them to collapse into the snow. "Happy Birthday."

Ivan's arms shot out almost by reflex and he hauled the fallen person roughly to their feet, holding them up by a fancy-looking army jacket which he almost accidently ripped in his haste to keep them standing. As the figure turned, spitting curses, to face him, Ivan saw that it was a man. A not-very-happy man, but a man nonetheless. He was considerably shorter than Ivan, and had a slightly leaner build than the average Russian. He didn't look Russian either, his face was too angular and his eyes were a peculiar shade of red. As he continue to struggle against Ivan's grip, his hat slipped back a little and Ivan caught a glimpse of short silvery-white hair. He guessed he was one of those albinos, one of those strange sorts who couldn't go out in the sun. Well, he would have no problem coping out here then.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" The man hissed, and Ivan let his hand go limp to allow the distressed man to shake himself away and stumble back, muttering all kinds of Russian obscenities mixed with another language which, if he assumed correctly, was German. That would explain his odd accent then; his words were too sharp, his Russian didn't flow like it should, his voice was too harsh.

Ivan immediately adopted a more defensive position, fists half-formed in case it got nasty. He looked over to frown at the guard, who seemed to be enjoying himself quite a lot. The guard held back his laughter for a second to shout over at Ivan. "A new playmate for you, let's see if this one escapes the iron fists of the Tin Man, eh?" If Ivan had been Tino or Eduard, he would have probably said something snarky about the fact that he wouldn't actually _have _iron fists as he was indeed the Tin Man, but he just glared and huffed. The guard spat in the snow and gave Ivan a look which blatantly told him to move on, and he added something quietly which Ivan didn't catch but it made the panting man in front of him turn and bellow in a different language.

Once the smaller man had calmed down- well, calmed down as in he'd stopped shouting and was glaring up at Ivan with obvious distaste- Ivan took a chance to observe him a little better. He was dressed in a sort of greyish-blue army uniform, which judging by the slightly lighter patches had been ripped of all rank and regiment, and was bloody on one side. Something reddish-brown was streaked across his cheek, but Ivan couldn't tell if it was blood or dirt. Ivan looked down, and his eyebrows rose. Those boots looked a little too shiny to go unnoticed, and judging by the heel and point they were pretty darn good boots. Ivan knew several men who would commit a murder for a pair of boots as good as those.

His accent was a little peculiar, and Ivan was certain the language he'd been speaking in was German. From the look of him, he was fresh off the boat, and his face didn't show any lines yet. He looked young, maybe a little younger than Ivan himself, and was about the same height as Eduard. His build was a little different to Eduard's though, as unlike the Estonian, this man looked like he could hold his own in a fight. Well, maybe for at least a couple of minutes.

Gang 24's new arrival remained standing still as Ivan started to walk off, his eyes cast down and fists clenched. Ivan turned back to see if he was following, and had to hold back insults as he saw the man standing like a stubborn mule in the snow. With an exasperated sigh, Ivan walked back over to him and gripped the back of his uniform, shoving him forwards to unfreeze his legs. "Move." He growled, letting go of him as soon as the man choked out a profanity and began to walk. Ivan strode ahead of him silently, not checking back to see if he was following. If the man wasn't going to cooperate, they he could be left to freeze in the snow for all he cared. Not that he cared in the first place.

"Aren't you going to ask my name?" An indignant voice called behind him, making Ivan hesitate a little but not making him turn around.

He continued walking. "No."

"Aren't you going to tell me yours?"

"No." He was beginning to get a little pissed off with the new man.

"Fucking…" Ivan heard him trail off into a string of quiet German.

"Well if you're going to get that worked up about it, then your name must be something important." Ivan drawled, giving in to the urge to be a little bit snarky.

"Shut up." Was his answer.

Gosh. Any Russian with that attitude would be six feet under the snow before they could kiss goodbye to their bread rations and borrowed boots.

Apparently their conversation wasn't as finished as Ivan had hoped.

"It's Gilbert. Gilbert Beilschmidt."


	2. Chapter 2

_Sorry that chapter two is really late! I had to visit some people, and I had to sort out a couple of issues with people I had previously called friends. Anyway, here it is, and I promise chapter three will be posted a little quicker than this one has._

_Thank you for the very kind anonymous reviewer of my story, it was a good motivator and it was really nice to hear that people read my stuff!_

_Please feel free to tell me if anything is historically incorrect, and I will be happy to edit it._

_*is looking for a beta as well as I can't edit this crap by myself*_

_Please enjoy this, and I'd love to hear what you think!_

"_It's Gilbert. Gilbert Beilschmidt."_

Ivan remained silent, kicking at a lump of ice thrown up by a sled's skids. Names didn't usually bother him that much, he tended to forget the names of the lesser members of his gang, and he wasn't even going to try to pronounce any of Tino's or Eduard's last names, but this one seemed to stick in his head a little more firmly than the others did. But why? It was just a name, just another word he had to call out when they were being counted. It didn't matter, so why was his subconscious so intent on fixing it in his mind?

"Well then, Beilschmidt." He covered up his irritation with himself by maintaining a slightly sarcastic tone. Who knows, he might be able to enforce some kind of authority into this blockhead before the evening came to a conclusion. "It doesn't look like that uniform of yours is going to do you any favours tonight." He didn't know why he cared so much; he could just leave the German to freeze in his bunk, it wouldn't matter too much to him. Nevertheless, if he was even a little bit like Toris, he wasn't taking any chances in leaving him to survive on his own.

The German walking beside him bristled like an aggravated wolverine. "It's a perfectly fine uniform" He snapped, picking a few stray threads from the frayed sleeves. "Lasted me all the way through wi-"

"As lustrous as it seems" Ivan interrupted, his eyes flicking over to the soldier. "I doubt it's going to stop you from freezing to death." Not that he cared. Of course he didn't care. Why would he care?

Ivan saw the German stiffen a little, and he smirked in a winning kind of fashion, slowing his pace to a leisurely stroll, as if he was completely fine with the temperature. Psh, as if. The wind seemed to make his sturdy frame rack with shivers regardless of how many layers he wore, and his eyes were permanently slit against the snow and ice flakes that always seemed to blow right in his face. His pale skin was pockmarked with tiny scars where the ice had flown at him a little viciously, or where he had not seen where he was going in a blizzard and smacked straight into the side of the barracks. Tiny fragments of ice crept into his boots and crunched when he walked, and when his feet got to a temperature that was considered cold for most people, the shards melted, soaking his foot cloths. If any poor uncondemned person was to see him now, they would have probably mistaken him for the Abominable Snowman.

The walk back to the barracks seemed to take years, and every time Ivan looked up, the glowing orange lights of the oil lamps never appeared to be closer. The silence didn't affect Ivan, but judging by the sideways glances that Beilschmidt was giving him, he wasn't coping too well with it.

"How long you in for?" Harsh Russian finally broke the silence, and Ivan had half a mind to just dismiss the question. Although, maybe awkward one-worded answers would be enough to pass the time, before he knew it, if they kept this rate of conversation up, Ivan would be halfway through his sentence before he knew it.

"Fifteen." They no longer used years in the camp, that lengthened the phrase and therefore, by some ridiculous psychological rule, lengthened the sentence. Just a number meant infinite definitions as to how long fifteen was, and even though Ivan knew damn well that wouldn't make the actual sentence longer or shorter, he'd have to kill a few inmates for anything close to that, he still took part in this odd little ritual. Almost hesitantly, he took a stab (although he would have _much _preferred that the stab to this certain man was not a verbal one) at continuing this branch of their already thrilling conversation. "You?"

"Life." That was a word issued with a great taboo in Gang 24. None of them, not even Tino, considered themselves to be alive anymore. Being alive was about doing profitable work, eating good meals, sleeping in a woman's arms every night; to be alive was to be ungoverned by any being other than the one in the sky and a man's own father, alive was not just blinking and breathing. But here, here there was nothing that reminded them of profitable labour, good meals, even the warmth of another body. They were pallid replicas, cold, bleached souls that could do nothing more than blink and breathe in the shuddering cold before the end.

Ivan didn't bother to mention the taboo; he hoped that Beilschmidt would pick up on their reluctance to talk about what they had before, and sooner rather than later. "Long then." Syntax had long since flown away with the rest of his verbal skills, and most of the time he got by with grunts and broken sentences. The only phrases he needed to know were the ones he used to organise his gang, but even then they were hardly Shakespearian quotes of great description and meaning. And that was it, conversation concluded, and quite timely so as Ivan ducked under the cross-beam of the barracks for the fifth time that day, shouting something at the seventeen year old Lithuanian in charge of distributing clothes to the new arrivals, who then scurried away with garbled apologies.

Ivan thought everything had been going quite well until there was a smack and a thud beside him and numerous curses in numerous languages filled the air. Dreading what he was going to see with a somewhat sarcastically foreboding look, he turned his head and saw one man on the ground, and one man still standing. A Finn from another gang, and a certain and already annoyingly familiar German. Ivan would have been much less angry if their positions were switched.

The man on the ground bellowed something in Finnish and stood, pointing to a blackish lump now half-buried in the snow. A small crowd had already gathered, mostly other Finns, but several Russians who pointed at Gilbert and spoke in hushed tones. "You piece of shit…" The stocky Finn growled, stalking up to Gilbert and gripping the collar of his uniform, forcing his back to bend and his head to face in the direction of the currently undefined object in the snow. Ivan knew all too well what it was, and why the man was so distressed, but he didn't quite feel like giving any of this information to Gilbert any time soon. "You know what you just did?"

Ivan could see Gilbert reeling slightly, and guessed he had been cuffed around the head just after he'd walked straight into the Finn. Ivan himself remained vigilant about not walking into the path of others- it was a touchy subject, a man's personal space, even in fights they were reluctant to maintain any kind of contact other than punches. It was simple logic; their need to stay away from each other, as no wounded animal touches another equally pained soul, does it? It was as if an icy plague had sunk upon them all, and they were afraid of it spreading.

"I apologise…" Came a quiet but firm-ish voice, and Ivan raised an eyebrow at the albino. "I mean you no harm, I'm sure you're an honourable man, just let me be on my way…" Was that… pleading? Ivan was the only man who cared to hold in his laughter. Only squealers pleaded like that, and even then they didn't beg for mercy in such a situation as this. A squealer was dead meat if he didn't launch himself screaming into a fight, they had to scrabble for as much power as they could get, even a squealer was smart enough to not shy away from a fight.

"Honour?" Bawled the Finn, murky grey eyes practically bursting from their sockets as he shook Gilbert by his collar. "There is no honour in throwing a man's bread on the ground then waltzing away like a little ballerina." The man looked beside himself with rage, and he threw the German into the side post of the doorway with all his strength, sending his head into a meeting with the wood with a loud crack. Gilbert slumped, still conscious, much to the spectator's disappointment, and the Finnish man stood straight, kicking the lump of bread in the snow.

Ivan wasn't concerned, of course he wasn't, these kind of things were expected on the first evening of arriving- when Ivan himself had been kicked past those gates, he'd broken two men's arms and another's collarbone in a quarrel over final scraps of strew. Granted, he'd been into camps before and he knew how to handle himself in those kinds of situations, but he'd assumed it was only man's instinct that _really _told him how to fight. Evidently not though, as fighting spirit did not seem to have blessed the German with the ability to stand up and scrape him back his measly reputation which, if you were to score it, would already be well into the minus figures.

"Next time, I'll be carving out your lying squealer heart and using it as a hat!" The final insult echoed in the air, and the Finn shook himself angrily, kicking snow over the scrap of bread to hide it and ploughing back through the snow to his gang's barracks, followed by both cheerful and disappointed Finns. After two prized troublemakers had been 'lost in the snow', as the guards had put it, there had been little or no fights which had ever got to the point of someone being sent to the infirmary. Ivan had to admit he had wanted a little more action, especially from the German, but he was sure that his attitude would present many more opportunities of a fight.

As the crowd began to disperse, the thrill (if you could call it that, Ivan's enthusiasm had diminished so much that even mild interest in something was rare) of watching the argument died down and Ivan remembered that as being gang leader, he probably had some kind of responsibility over Gilbert's actions. Sighing and walking over to his slouched form, he nudged Gilbert's side with his boot. "Beilschmidt." Once again, why did he remember his last name? He hoped it wasn't some kind of divine provenance as he was keen to get Gilbert out of his hands and out of his mind as quickly as possible. "Up."

The German staggered to his feet, and Ivan was surprised at his obedience. Normally it was a little more difficult to get new inmates to do as they were told. Maybe it was the shock of the confrontation- though Ivan was already beginning to see him as a bit of a spineless little weed, if he was going to be honest. He would contribute nothing to his gang other than unneeded attention from the Warden and an extra bunk, nothing more.

Tino was at the front of the staring members of Gang 24, and his finger shook as he pointed at Gilbert. "Is that a…?" He glanced at Ivan, pale blue eyes wide with surprise and the beginnings of loathing. Tino was very proud to hold the title of the man who had sent the most German POW's off to their 'warm sauerkraut heaven', as he put it, and by the look on his face now, he would be more than happy to send this one on their way too. Ivan nodded once then glanced at Gilbert, smirking as he saw how petrified he looked. The German wasn't going to last a week, and Ivan wasn't going to prolong that time any more than what was necessary.

"Gang 24, we have a new member." Ivan couldn't help but enjoy how he made everyone fall silent as soon as he opened his mouth. He jabbed Gilbert roughly in the back, making him stumble into the centre of the semicircle that had been formed around him. "This is Gilbert Beilschmidt; I assume you all know him already, if the guards have been flapping their traps as usual." The guards gossiped like geese, as soon as something new happened, the whole camp would know in less than ten minutes.

Ivan saw Tino's face sink into a sour glare and he muttered something to that Lithuanian, Toris, making them both snort with laughter. The Russian gave them an exasperated look before turning his back on the crowd and facing Gilbert. As soon as he did this, there was a collective grumble and the rest of the men went back to whatever aimless activities they were participating in. Thus dismissed, Tino and Toris, Ivan noticed, walked off a little slower than anyone else, deep in conversation.

"When's dinner?" Ivan almost sent his fist rocketing into the German's obviously empty stomach at that. Men had to do what they told, speak when spoken, and eat when food was presented. People didn't ask for things in such a way anymore, as it only got them closer to that invitingly uncaring shallow grave in the snow and a one-way trip to the infirmary.

"You missed it." He stated, staring blankly at Gilbert's flimsy uniform. It looked too ceremonial to be something he would have shot at in the fields, but it didn't have all those fancy tassels on that made the generals look like moustached carpets. Was it a new style? No, it couldn't be, Ivan knew both the Russians and Germans could barely spare enough thread to clothe their soldiers anymore. "Dinner is at seven every evening."

A loud groan informed Ivan that this information had been taken on board, which he was surprised at, but it had been taken on board without the generous pinch of salt he had been expecting. "Is there any other food anywhere? There was no food on the train."

_Of course there was no food on the train, you imbecile, there weren't even any windows. _Ivan wanted to shout at him, but for the sake of his recently rather peaceful reputation and the intactness of the wall of the barrack, he decided to remain silent. It was late, about nine in the evening, which was the time when most men would be dragged out to be searched again. Ivan assumed that, because of this rather _difficult _new inmate, the Warden was too weighed down with paperwork to bother with maintaining order. Although, maintaining order was usually not something high on the Warden's priorities, unless he had enough smokes in his pocket and a good pair of boots to kick the Latvians with.

It was getting colder, the temperature dropping rapidly as Ivan gripped hold of Gilbert's arm somewhat regretfully, leading him to one of the spare bunks cheerfully placed in a shabbily symmetrical way next to his own bunk. He pointed to the empty bunk, which was covered in a thin blanket and a neat pile of clothes at the end. "Yours."

Ivan knew he should probably teach the German how bind his feet against the cold, as it wasn't good as gang leader if his newest member's feet dropped off on the first night. He pulled himself up onto Gilbert's new bunk, hearing it creak horribly as he picked up the clothes. There was a long overcoat, a smaller jacket, two shirts, thick trousers, and a pair of what looked like white rags. He indicated the space next to him. "Sit."

He was pleased to see Gilbert looking openly disgusted at his proposal, good; at least he wasn't trying to be everyone's friend like some men tried to, but he sat beside him nonetheless. Ivan looked down at those clean, shiny boots. "Off."

There was an indignant noise that clearly meant 'fuck no'. "Off? Are you fucking insane, Russian? My feet will freeze!" The looked on Gilbert's face suggested he thought Ivan had lost the plot. Well, there hadn't been too much of a plot to begin with, but Ivan was not one to define himself as mad.

Ivan kept his expression calm, picked up the foot cloths, and dropped them as if they were on fire in Gilbert's lap. "Boots off. Wrap your feet. Boots on. No cold." He talked slowly, as if to a child, allowing a hint of a mocking tone as it gave him something akin to revenge. After having to drag him away from the jaws of that raving Finn, he had become something of a laughing stock amongst the other gangs, from what he had heard from Tino's mutterings to Toris. He'd sort that out soon, if it got any worse.

Gilbert huffed irately and practically flung off those lovely, clean, _shiny _boots, staring at the white rags in confusion. "I wrap them, around my feet?"

Ivan almost gave in and explained it quietly and patiently, but he had had enough of ignorance for one day. He'd spent most of the day up a very high (high as in at _least _twenty feet, as he'd said when Tino had laughed at him for his irrational 'fear') ladder laying brick after fucking brick, and he was fed up with having to do everything for everyone else. This German better be a fast learner, as Ivan was sure as hell not going back to explain this again.

When he grabbed Gilbert's ankle and forced it to rest on the edge of the bunk, he was rewarded with a loud curse and a thrashing German on the other end of that foot. "Keep still." He growled, wrapping the rag tightly around the foot and tying it as fast as he could, waiting until the other foot was thrown unceremoniously onto his knee so he could bind that one too. Good, he knew to do what he was told now, maybe he could teach him a few lifesaving (not that he really _wanted _to prolong the German soldier's life) tactics before the week was over.

Ivan was not one to usually remark on a person in his way, but the German's feet were unnaturally _warm_. Most Russians and Lithuanians he had to bind feet for when they first arrived had skin like a glacier's, and sometimes it was the same colour too. His unusual temperature was odd, and Ivan's hand burned as if he had stuck it under a fire. He hoped Gilbert didn't have any of those trench diseases he knew some long-perished men had picked up on the battlefield, as the last thing he needed was to fall ill after all this time.

Once the binding was done and Ivan could go back to his strictly-no-contact-unless-aggressive rule, he let go of the foot and swung himself off the bunk, looking down the aisle the bunks formed to check for any stragglers coming in from working late or cleaning the mess hall. It looked like everyone in Gang 24 was in, so he was able to relax for a couple of minutes until going to sleep, which was a change as to about now, they would all be shirtless in the snow as the guards flung all their possessions around to check for bombs. Hah, as if they would carry _bombs, _most of them were too weak to even carry their coats on their underfed shoulders.

"Now, assuming you don't fall out of the bunk and freeze to death" Ivan drawled, nodding curtly at Eduard before fixing Gilbert with a steely look. "You'll be up at reveille at five-thirty. If not, the guards will wake you in probably a less pleasant manner, am I clear?" There was no reply. Ivan was sure his message had gotten across though, and he hadn't even had to shout yet. Despite his cowardly performance before, Gilbert seemed decidedly easier to train than characters such as Tino or even devious little Eduard, who preferred going about things his own way.

Ivan removed his boots, checked his foot bindings were secure and scoured his feet for the waxy symptoms of frostbite, removed his coat and jacket, and tugged the blanket over himself as he settled onto the sawdust-filled mattress. Glancing over at Gilbert, he saw him watching carefully with those odd pinkish-red eyes, laying his jacket over his feet in the same way Ivan himself had done. Most of the time, he left it to the other men to work out how to insulate themselves, and this childish way of imitation was odd. Despite everything, despite how cold Ivan had been, Beilschmidt had trusted he knew what he was doing, and was indeed as desperate as he had sounded when he had pleaded for forgiveness from the Finnish man earlier. No. He couldn't think like that. Gilbert Beilschmidt was the same as every man under this rickety corrugated iron room; he blinked, he breathed, he argued, he fought; there was nothing more to him. Ever since he had stepped through those gates he had had no identity, there was none of him left anymore.

"Apparently, if you're interested, that German there fought in the west against the other Russians." 'The other Russians' were the soldiers who would never end up in camps, as they fought on the 'right' side. Tino muttered, well _stage muttered_, from his bunk over to Toris. Ivan glanced at Gilbert again, and saw him lying on his side facing away from him. Though he looked asleep, Ivan swore he saw his shoulders slump a little as he overheard the Finn.

"Bet he didn't last long, did he?" Ivan hadn't heard Toris talk like that for a long time; usually he was a little more pleasant towards new arrivals.

Tino laughed loudly, making a spark of irritation ignite in Ivan. The damn Finn never kept his voice down, possibly purposefully, but it meant the whole barrack could hear what he was talking about. "Last long? Mikaelovitch told me his regiment left him bleeding on a ridge two kilometres from camp having not even fired a shot." There was a chorus of laughs from the listening men.

Ivan lay himself down on the bunk, shifting around to get himself comfortable and tucking his coat close around his chin so his breath wouldn't freeze on the blanket as he slept. Listening to the other men talk was not an activity he usually enjoyed doing at this time in the evening, but considering the subject matter was something he had thought about for most of the afternoon and it affected him more than normal, he couldn't help but listen.

"Honestly, you'd think that with their fancy uniforms and weapons, they'd at least have mighty strong soldiers." That was Eduard, trailing Raivis probably, eavesdropping as usual.

Tino spoke a little quieter; though it was clear it was quiet with resent. "My Ber would've shot him down as soon as he stepped over the border." He sighed lightly, and Ivan heard Eduard chuckle quietly. "Swedes make the best fighters." He whispered, and Ivan caught the familiar rustle and click of the locket Tino always wore around his neck.

"That'll be why you're landed here then, Tino." Eduard remarked smoothly, earning a small laugh from Raivis and a couple of chuckles from Nikolai and the other men Eduard 'employed'.

"What would you know about how I landed here?" Tino snapped, and from then, the conversation spiralled into an insult exchange between the Finn and Eduard, punctuated by an occasional 'stop it' from Toris. Ivan relaxed back against his bunk, sighing quietly as the lamps in both doorways of the barracks were extinguished. A couple of men lit their own lamps and candles, but most had enough sense to close their eyes and sleep while they could before it got too cold to even think. It wasn't really sleeping; more of a suspended animation where they all just shut down, and were reactivated as walking corpses in the morning again.

And thus, another day of his sentence was concluded, ending in the whispers of breathing souls, and a mind spinning with thoughts of a strange German soldier.

_Please review this chapter and tell me what you thought!_


	3. Chapter 3

_Sorry this chapter's really late! ;A;_

_Thank you to the people who reviewed the previous chapter, I hope you will enjoy this one too :D_

_I spent so long trying to start this chapter, it just wouldn't work the way I wanted it to :/_

_Any suggestions for where this story should go? Anything you want me to add? Any suggestions for improvement? Please, send me a message!_

_And please feel free to talk to me on PM __im a lonely girl_

_And sorry there's probably a lot of swearing in this one._

**Chapter Three-**

_A boom. A cry. He flees._

_He runs past the mangled skeleton of another house, boots scuffing on the rubble scattered like shredded petals in the courtyard. He keeps his eyes fixed on the direction the muzzle of his rifle is pointing as he runs, afraid that, if he looks up, he will see the faces of those already lost dragging him into the darkness with them. The cold air jabs at his lungs every time he inhales, but he is glad they are not filled with smoke and screams anymore. _

_A flicker. A shot. He falls._

_They are suddenly everywhere, crawling like demons; he sees them in the wreckage of the house, around the bodies of the women and children, standing in front of him, tall as titans, silent as the grave. His eyes are wide with fear and shock, stinging with ash and unshed tears. There are too many of them. He can't fight them all. Pain swells in his calf, but he does not notice the red blossoming on the grey of his uniform. He will notice it later. He will have a long time alone with just his wounds. One of them grips his hair, and looking up was like staring into the glare of the Devil himself._

_A snap. A heartbeat. Darkness. _

Ivan awoke to a similar darkness crushing him from all sides. He had forgotten to wrap his hands in cloths as well, and they were clenched tight around the bars of the bunk, shaking horribly as he sat up. Despite the cold, his skin was almost feverish but clammy to the touch, and his limbs felt like they had been pulled off then stitched back on again. It had just been a dream, nothing more, and nothing to worry about. Just a little, stupid, _terrifying _dream. It had been so _vivid, _so bright and clear, just hidden away in the corners of his mind. He looked around to check he hadn't woken anyone else, but remembered that the sun probably hadn't risen yet, so reveille wouldn't be until a couple of hours.

Resting back against the sheets and stuffing his freezing hands under his coat, rubbing them together, he stared blankly upwards, seeing shapes twist and writhe in the half-darkness. His ears rang with echoes, and he wondered if he had hit his head during his sleep, or if they were the remainders of those ghastly screams and cries. He shook his head dismissively, fumbling for his balaclava hat and tugging it over his head. Maybe it was the cold getting to him because he hadn't worn his hat, just some kind of illness that would pass soon. Yes, that must be why he was so shaky. Sighing out slowly and finally relaxing his limbs, he closed his eyes and pondered upon what he had seen.

"Ivan sir? Um… it's reveille, sir…" The last thing Ivan wanted to hear as soon as he woke up was a quiet and weak voice telling him it was the time of day he hated the most. It was already dawn, and the watery sun shone down onto a barrack full of bad moods. Men were rolling regretfully out of their bunks with grumbles and curses in various languages, trying to warm themselves up as much as possible before they were taken outside and searched. Ivan's head lifted to glare at the Latvian who owned that rather irritating voice, and Raivis took a couple of steps backwards in surprise. "And sir, you have to… um… wake _him_…"

Could the day actually get any worse.

Ivan then spent the next five minutes angrily yanking on his coat, jacket and boots, not bothering to tie the flaps of his hat or wrap his nose and mouth in rags, snapping at anyone stupid enough to ask him what the matter was. They probably all knew what the matter was anyway, Eduard had cheerfully told everyone as soon as he'd woken up that Ivan was the German's 'child minder', and that if anyone else had any children who couldn't take care of themselves then Ivan would be happy to look after them. Ivan kept shooting him outraged looks every two minutes, which were answered with bored glances from the Estonian. If the other men weren't so dependent on Eduard, Ivan would have probably sent him on his way to the infirmary by now.

Ivan, for once, didn't know what to do. It was every man's job to get himself up at reveille and get ready for the parade, everyone new that rule well enough, and no-one _usually _tended to assist anyone else who was trying to adjust the early waking time. This was where the heart of Ivan's problem lay. Well, it was a problem of many hearts, none of which was his, and one of which was the all-too-condemning reputation of the subject of said dilemma. It was customary for the gang leader to make sure new arrivals survived their first day in the camp, but Ivan didn't want to look weak. He didn't want to make it looked like he _liked _Beilschmidt, or even wanting him to survive in any way, but he couldn't just leave him to sleep through the parade. His reputation was questionable already; he didn't need this to make it any worse.

Nevertheless, he had no choice other than to turf the blockhead out of bed himself. He strode up to Gilbert's bunk, wrapping his hands in some spare rags he had found in the mess hall. Fifty heads turned to watch him in silence as he reached over the side of Gilbert's bunk, jabbing him sharply in the side. He watched, seemingly disinterested, as the German opened his eyes and squinted drowsily at Ivan. "Whnn?" He questioned sleepily.

Ivan had no time to take in the fragility of his half-opened eyes, his mussed up white-blonde hair or the way his arms shook as he sat up, retracting his hand and glaring at him pointedly. "Up." He indicated to the rest of the men, who were perched on their bunks with as many layers as they could stand up in, still staring at Ivan. "Now."

"Good morning to you too." Gilbert muttered in reply, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He sat on the edge of the bunk, making Ivan take a couple of steps back, and reached for his new (well, new to him) overcoat.

Ivan had to stop himself from just shouting then and there. "No, no, you put the jacket over the coat." He snapped, indicating for Gilbert to stand up and pointing at his jacket. "That first."

When he was answered with a blank look and a slight huff, he began to get a little less tolerant. Was he actually capable of doing anything other than make this worse for Ivan? The second bell rang for the parade, and everyone but Gilbert and Ivan filed out of the barrack, grumbling quietly as they knew they were about to miss a rather interesting confrontation.

"Are you deaf?" Ivan growled. "Dress."

He watched with raised eyebrows as Gilbert tugged on the jacket, then the coat, but Ivan was a little bit glad that he had remembered to check his feet and wrap them again before he stuffed them into his boots, looking up at Ivan with a less than cheerful expression. "That better?" He spat, his eyes flicking from Ivan to his overcoat with a disgusted expression. It was a little too big for him (he was well under the size and build of most inmates) and one of the sleeves was ripped up to the elbow, possibly from a fight or a fall. Ivan was not going to tell him that new inmates rarely got these coats unless the previous owner had 'left the camp', but he was sure another, more sadistic member of the gang would soon inform him of this. Ivan had actually 'won' his, after a fight with a burly Estonian. He had long forgotten the cause of the argument, but he was proud of his prize nonetheless.

They were already late for the parade, so Ivan was preparing to steer his way out of a bollocking from the Warden. "Out." He pointed at the door, not bothering to wait for Gilbert as he exited the barrack at a fast pace. He heard loud footsteps behind him so he didn't have to worry about dragging Gilbert by the scruff of his neck up to face the Warden.

The wind wasn't as strong as it had been the day before, but Ivan still turned up his collar and pulled his scarf up over his chin and mouth. There was nothing worse than having the wind in your face for the whole day; Ivan had learned the hard way why it was always good to wrap your face in rags every morning. He knew younger members of the gang, Raivis in particular, neglected to perform this ritual of wrapping every exposed body part in rags, and it was easy to pick out who hadn't done it- chapped lips, red cheeks and even missing digits were tell-tale signs of a struggler.

Strugglers were always the ones who went down first- they were the runts of the litter, the weeds of humanity who hadn't had a chance to build a reputation or just wouldn't be able to survive. They were the ones who did a lot of the work despite their size and physical wellbeing, and were often pushed (and sometimes screwed) around by the other inmates. Raivis was one of them, and Ivan was anticipating the day when he would just fall down and not get up. Not even for Eduard.

Ivan couldn't understand why so many men were eager for physical pleasures, especially in a place like this. He'd gone to camps where women were willing and plentiful, but most of the men had focused more on staying alive than anything to do with that. Maybe it was just the lack of women that prompted such desire, but Ivan could honestly say that he didn't care very much for women at all; although the Warden would probably just say Ivan didn't care much for anyone, not even platonically. Anyhow, he couldn't see the point in having a relationship in this particular corner of Hell; it would be a waste of both physical and emotional energy.

The snow had drifted during the night, so sometimes it was only ankle-deep, other times it was past their knees and Ivan had to work hard to plough a path through. Without stocky little Tino to pave the way for them, as they did normally on the way to parades, Ivan's feet were aching already, and his boots were soaked. Well, if he was still sane and counting the days correctly, it was Sunday tomorrow, so he could dry them off then.

"Where are we going?" Ivan had hoped dearly for the whole morning that there was going to be no more interaction. Evidently he was wrong.

Rolling his eyes and kicking at another lump of hard snow, he kept walking towards where all the other men were lined up, their eyes fixed on the Warden as he bellowed out something as equally as pointless as Gilbert's question. "Parade." He muttered, not sure if Gilbert got the message on no more talking, but he would do his best to ignore him for now.

His plan on ignoring the German didn't last too long as there was the sound of angrily crunching snow, and the Warden appeared in front of him. He didn't look too pleased, although, he never really looked pleased with anything, but Ivan was thankful to see that his gaze was directed at Gilbert instead of him.

"Why are you so late? All the other buggers seemed to have made it onto the grounds, what makes your pale, slimy ass so different?" That kind of language was normal for inmates to receive, so Ivan wasn't bothered, but it seemed Gilbert was less than pleased with the manner in which he was addressed.

"What makes you think I'm just going to do as you say, Russian?" Gilbert spat, evidently a little more than aggravated at how he had been spoken to.

Ivan tried sending the Warden an apologetic look, ready to step in if Gilbert forgot his place, but the shorter Russian ignored him. "Who do you think you are? Some little German princess sent here on special measures because your own country didn't want your abomination of a face and your whore of a lover stinking up the place?" The Warden spat into the snow, eyes filled with rage. "Get your filthy boots off my snow and stand in _line._" On the final word, the Warden gave Gilbert a hard shove, sending him backwards into Ivan.

Ivan wrenched Gilbert into a shaky standing position by grabbing his arm, and the cry of pain from the German didn't bother him at all. He was more bothered by the Warden now shouting at _him _in angry Russian, using more insults than he had with Gilbert. He could feel his cheeks heat up in anger, and he had to take deep breaths to stop himself from retaliating. All he had to do was walk away with Gilbert in tow, get in line, and stay shut up for the rest of the day.

"I apologise, sir." His words sounded broke, as if they were coming out of their own accord and he was trying to wrench them back. "It won't happen again, he's new, he knows nothing." The bit he added on the end was to make it a little less painful for himself as apologising wasn't really his forte, and to hopefully irritate the German a little more.

Although he would rather have forgotten about it and ploughed on with his monotonous little life, Ivan couldn't help but ponder on what the Warden had said to Gilbert. Whore of a lover? Were there two of them? If there was going to be a new arrival with the same nationality and hot-headedness as Gilbert, then he was going to demote himself and let Raivis deal with it. He'd rather a squealer control men out of their place than himself, it was too much hassle and he didn't care if they took a long walk up a short ladder, as long as he was unharmed. The insults weighed heavily in his mind though, and despite his best efforts to focus on something else, there really wasn't anything as mildly interesting or even worth bothering about.

When the Warden's ruffled feathers had settled and he went back to keeping the other watching men in line, Ivan turned to Gilbert; looming over him with the same stony glare he'd fixed him with after the bread incident the previous day. "If you fuck up like that again, I'll make sure there's a nice little hole outside of camp you can go rest your little corpse in when the men are done with you." He hissed, sweeping past him and into the line. It had probably been a bit harsh, and he knew that Tino would have a go at him later for greatly improving everyone else's experience of being searched in the snow. A couple of men gave him hushed congratulations on how he had 'sorted the brat out', but he brushed them off with a sigh.

It felt different to when he shouted at Eduard and Raivis when they weren't doing their jobs, or when he snapped something at a passing man who looked shifty. There wasn't the satisfying feel in his chest after it was over, or the rush brought on by the anger. He just felt cold; like he'd kicked a dog and now it was whimpering before him. It felt like he'd got the message across, but not in a way he really enjoyed doing. Which was stupid, because shouting at people was what he lived for.

Ivan could already hear the 'oooo's coming from his gang as he walked past and took his place at the head of their particular line. Some days they had to march around the perimeter of the camp in silence before they were searched, but that happened less than it used to as the newer Warden wasn't too bothered with that kind of 'hanky panky', as he called it. Today, it seemed like they were just going to be standing still, which in some ways was worse because their bodies were slowly freezing to a halt, and then they would have to suddenly snap into action to run to the mess hall for breakfast.

He looked back at Gilbert, and was surprised to see his gaze fixed firmly on the ground. Ivan had probably hit a sore spot or something, they all had their subjects they didn't want to talk about, but he guessed it was mostly just resentment. It was easy to hate anyone in a place like this, and even easier to want to kill an angry bastard such as Ivan or the Warden. Eduard categorised people as either being on the 'good side' or, instead of the opposite being the 'bad side', he had dubbed those men the 'shit eaters'. Ivan had seen this as being childish and something a teenage girl would do, but had often caught himself going 'good side, shit eater' to men he passed or saw when he worked. Gilbert was most certainly, in Ivan's opinion, going to turn out to be a shit eater. Well, that's what he hoped; otherwise he'd have to keep up this Mother Goose charade (which, if he were to be so bold, he was doing _very _badly at) for however long the German managed to survive.

Being searched was easy for Ivan- he just had to stick out his arms and the man in charge of searching them would pat his sides gingerly. Ivan knew for a fact that a pat that gentle would probably not even be able to detect if he had a tank under his coat, but no-one wanted the job of searching Ivan Braginsky. With a sharp nod and a blink of his bespectacled eyes, the man moved on to the next inmate in the line. Ivan could have hidden the Kremlin in his coat pocket and he wouldn't have told him to remove it. All Ivan really possessed was a couple of broken bullets, a couple of shards of metal he'd been meaning to make into something useful, his prized and beloved spoon, and a little metal fragment he had on a string around his neck. It used to be much harsher for him, and because he was nominated early on in his camp life as being gang leader, they sometimes made him strip completely to laugh and ridicule him for various reasons.

For the other men, being searched was a little less satisfying. They received harsh slaps to their arms and sides, and were often told to undress themselves, either for the guard's sick amusement or because they were carrying something 'suspicious'. No-one cared if one of them had found or been given a hand grenade and blew all their heads off, it was just routine. And routine was the only thing that kept them all sane.

Ivan kept his gaze fixed on the snow in front of him as the others were searched, blocking out the complaints and insults, just focusing on the ground. It was starting to snow a little again, and the flakes caught in his hair and landed on his nose. He was too used to them to brush them away, and he didn't stop to look up at them like he may have done when he had first got here. The snow used to remind him of different places, and he used to enjoy imagining where that snow had travelled from to land on his face. He'd wondered if it had sailed high over sunny fields of bright yellow sunflowers, or if it had looked down on happy, content people and had snowed down on them too. Snow used to remind him of freedom, of a life outside his own. Now it was just cold stuff that made his clothes wet.

He was snapped out of his meditative state by a loud shout and the sound of boots kicking snow. Turning around, even though they had all been instructed to stay staring ahead, he half hoped it to be one of the rebellious Estonians Eduard knew who refused to take their patterned face-scarves off, but his enthusiasm crashed into the ground as he saw what the commotion was. Could he just do as he was told, for one, small minute?

Gilbert was shouting, clawing, and grasping at the restraining arms of two guards who slowly lowered him to his knees, guns pressed to each of his temples. His coat was discarded, already damp where it was lying on the snow, and his jacket was half-unbuttoned, the vest underneath torn to reveal a sliver of a pale chest heaving as he shouted. His eyes were wide, and Ivan was half expecting him to start frothing at the mouth any time soon. Ivan dragged his eyes away from the German to the Warden, and saw him dangling some kind of object on a chain in front of Gilbert. He was jeering at him, in both Russian and broken German, swinging the chain back and forth like a hypnotist's pocket watch.

"Hey! Leave the man alone!" That was Tino interfering again, as he normally did when a man was treated 'unfairly' by the Warden. He seemed to think that he was the lord of social justice in the camp, simply because of how he lived in his home country, and like to impose these rules on the other men. Ivan saw it as his little way of getting power, but he wasn't going to argue. The Finn was tougher than he looked, and he'd killed Russians his size a thousand times over, and would probably do it again if he was given a revolver and pointed in the right direction.

"This is out of your authority, just drop it." Ivan hissed, praying he didn't go and jump into the fray or something. He'd already had enough of pulling reckless arses out of fights. Tino gave him a clear 'suck my dick' look before striding up to the guards holding Gilbert down, his hands curling into fists. His hat was pulled low over his eyes, and his various layers of insulation made him look bigger than he actually was.

Gilbert looked up at him with a frown, which was quickly changed to a wince as he was forced lower; Ivan assumed it was because of how the guards were twisting his arms. "You'll be putting him down now." The Finn growled, gesturing to the German. The guards spat at him and taunted him, but Tino stood his ground, oblivious to the abuse. Everyone knew Tino had been through a lot worse than just being sneered at, and even though he didn't act like it, there was a lot of weight on his shoulders. When they didn't move, Tino took a step closer. "Did I fucking _stutter._" He jumped forwards on one foot, making the guards step back with alarmed expressions, leaving the German to relax back into the snow.

"The only time you'll rest is when you're in that grave, and even then there'll be wolves and these bastards snapping at your heels." Tino said in a little bit of a sharper tone to Gilbert, extending a hand. "Up."

To Ivan's faint relief, Gilbert obliged, and was quickly ushered away from the mess by Tino. When it came to Germans and guards, Tino would much rather use his final breath to condemn the latter to Hell for eternity. That probably explained the smug look on his face as he led Gilbert to the mess hall after he had retrieved his coat, still spitting insults at the grinning Warden.

Whilst Ivan had just been standing there and watching everything with a careful eye in case anything was said about him, the other men had dispersed, some going to other barracks to tell their ill comrades about everything that had just happened, others jogging to the mess hall to get in line for their morning meal. Ivan could already hear hoots of laughter coming from the barracks and the groups of men jogging, and occasionally a loud exclamation of 'fucking idiots'. It was just him and the Warden now, and the couple of guards who were jabbering about what Tino had done in hushed tones. Ivan found it amusing that they stopped talking and stared like sheep every time he looked their way.

"They're always funniest when they're searched for the first time, don't you think?" Ivan didn't turn his head to answer the Warden; it would just be another show of weakness. "Them squealers, I don't know why we're just allowed to bang them into little pieces with our pistols, it would save food, and" He stepped in front of Ivan, blocking his vision. "It'd save all this mess." Ivan still didn't answer, anticipating a scolding for not saying 'yes, sir', and nodding his head like most men did. It would take, well; it would take someone as stubborn as Ivan not to do as the Warden said.

"You don't like talking, do you, Braginsky?" Ivan looked away, irritated, but didn't walk off as he would have done if it was a guard. It was only through this man that he had become gang leader, and that he was allowed to lead his gang how he wanted, and not how every other man did it. "It's like them Germans cut out your tongue, eh?" The Warden started to swing the item on the chain back and forth like a pendulum, and Ivan saw that now he was closer, it was a sort of cross shape, but squarer than the ones he used to see.

"I see you're eyeing up this trinket we found on the brat." Ivan looked away in irritancy again; he hated it when people caught him looking at something of interest. "It's pretty, isn't it? All polished and carved, he was probably a good little boy to have earned himself something like this."

Ivan was suddenly _very _interested as to how Gilbert had come across such a thing. There used to be a similar mark on the shard around his neck, although, back then it had been something a little more dangerous than just a scrap of metal. They probably didn't have any connection at all, but Ivan still wanted to know a little more about how and why Gilbert had got this. It appeared to have words inscribed on one side, and if Ivan's Cyrillic mind disconnected for a second, it seemed say something similar like '_Bruder_', but he was pretty sure there was an extra 'e' in there somewhere. He didn't know what it meant, of course he didn't, he couldn't speak German, but it sounded important.

"As gang leader" Ivan enjoyed inventing little rules of his own to create loopholes in the Warden's rule, and this was going to be one of those rules. "I must take all trinkets of my gang." He probably should have articulated that a little better, but words weren't his most trusted allies. Ivan held a gloved hand out, his eyes flicking up to meet the Warden's. He saw a lot in those eyes- not just anger and frustration, but pain and grieving too. Everyone knew he had lost his entire family in the attacks two decades ago, and this was his downfall. He grieved all the time, letting his emotions run free, lashing out at men because of that. He was a weak ruler. A strong ruler shows no emotion.

A gaze was held between them for a few long moments, a battle of wills between the Alpha and the strongest member of the pack, a stare down between two predators. Then slowly, uncertainly, the Warden's arm extended and dropped the pendant into Ivan's upturned palm. Ivan curled his fingers around it and only tucked it into the pocket stitched into the inner layer of his coat when he had turned away from the Warden. No more words were exchanged after that- Ivan just strode off to the mess hall, leaving the Warden looking slightly baffled. Weak, Ivan thought, the Warden is weak.

It was funny how all the people at the top were the weak ones, but then it all made perfect sense in a situation like this. The Warden had never laid a brick in his life, he'd never choked down dry porridge when the cook ran out of milk and whatever else they put into their food, he'd probably not ever had to sleep on a sawdust mattress. He hadn't done anything Ivan had had to do just to earn his morning meal, and he was still the weaker one. To Ivan, experience mattered more than just a silly badge and the ability to shout. He wouldn't bow down to any man who'd not seen what he'd seen, felt the same pain he had, and been painted in the blood of those he loved to be strung up in front of his country. That was what had landed him here.

"Off you go then, Tin Man." The Warden called. "Take care of that Cowardly Lion of yours." Ivan didn't understand why Gilbert was being dubbed as a lion, but cowardly seemed to fit.

Pulling up his scarf again as it had slipped down below his chin; he winced as the snow changed direction and started to blow in his face. He had better quicken his pace to catch up with the rest of his gang; they all ate like gannets, so there wouldn't be much left by the time he got there, much to his annoyance. Laying bricks on an empty stomach was worse than standing nude in a snowdrift, it was the most energy sapping, will draining job they'd had to do so far, and that was one of his favourite ones.

The pendant had been light in his palm, but in his pocket it felt like lead, burning a little hole in the fabric of his coat, and in the fabric of his mind.


End file.
